#saltzpyre saltbox

[rensouli]

I suppose if I claim to be an artist, I need to provide proof.

Here is a sampling of my Saltzpyre fanart drawn over the past year. It's been a bumper crop of witchfindery.

1. Rough pixel work 2. A fake screenshot, ft. a friend's OC 3. A "study" of sorts inspired by Caravaggio's "Conversion on the Way to Damascus" painting 4. A mini expression sheet drawn up for personal reference

[rensouli]

Paragraph Prompt #4 - "Bemoaning"

(Credit once again goes to Aurelia for this one - thank you ever so much!)

[Please note that I tend to play fast and loose with my Warhammer lore, largely for the sheer fun of it. I also must apologize for the sudden disappearance of Vercci and Voldo here, but rest assured, they'll return soon enough. I just need to get some Saltzpyre practice in too!]

     The chapterhouse dining hall was deafeningly silent, save for the whispers of some errant apprentice hunters seated on the far end of the benches and the droning voice of the priest reciting the evening’s chosen scriptures. Saltzpyre did his best to tune both out as he labored to eat his victuals, though he ignored the priest with a twinge of shameful guilt. The meal was more tasteless than usual, but for once that wasn’t due to the Templar dietary restrictions. Life itself lost its luster when he was kept from the roads and his usual duties. Small wonder, then, that even food wasn’t appealing to him in his current state.

     Scowling, he regarded the mass of bandages his injured arm had become, bound in its sling. A clean break and a cluster of harsh burns were the price he’d paid for a job well done. His nostrils still stung from the faint scent of the numbing poultice, which had been applied to the wounds earlier by a too-chatty healer. At least she hadn’t tried to convince him a soothing spell was necessary; at the end of the day, all magic reeked of corruption.

     Had there not been blessed days before the hateful Winds blew their first, dispersing such twisted gifts across the lands of men? The people had lived free from taint and temptation, and the emissaries of Chaos were forced to work more directly if they wished to corrupt mortals. But now such foul aims were so easily accomplished, with the flick of a glowing finger or the brewing of an ill-spiced potion. And what with the Imperial Court continuing to sanction and approve such heresy…Saltzpyre found himself thanking Sigmar that he wasn’t so mad as those who tried to mount a solo crusade against it. The mad zealots who tried such things were more likely to end up on the gallows or the pyre themselves than immortalized in stained glass with the saints.

     He shook his head. Would that circumstances were different, that Karl Franz and the Elector Counts could be led to reason at last! An Empire free of witchery, or at least one where those with magic’s accursed taint in their veins kept their heads down and knelt in the Temples of Sigmar to pray for their affliction to be lifted…oh, what a glorious land that would be to dwell in! He would weep tears of joy for the rest of his days there, and no mistake.

     Yet bemoaning the state of the world did precious little to bring about that longed-for miracle. Indeed, he was forced to reckon with the fact that reality never could measure up to his exacting standards.

     May Sigmar forgive me for having expectations in this vale of tears, he thought to himself. As he did his level best to choke down what remained of his gruel, he wore a grim smile. Could a man be absolved of something that wasn’t a sin?

     If having the true best interests of the Empire at heart made him a sinner, then perhaps he could allow himself a trace of corruption after all.

[rensouli]

Paragraph Prompt #5 - "Indiscretion"

(Credit once more to Aurelia - you are a fount of Good Ideas!)

“There. That will be the meeting place.” Aymes Crombie said, tugging the reins of his gelding, Ashes-to-Ashes, with some impatience.

     Saltzpyre regarded his comrade as the heavy-set man dismounted from the saddle. Judging by his grunt and the slightly pained expression he wore, the hasty descent of his boots to the ground left him winded. But Saltzpyre knew Crombie to be an able, competent agent of Church and Empire, having tracked heretical quarry with him over hill and dale, across the moors of the outer countryside.

      Yes, the condemned had a way of fleeing far beyond the limits of innocent folk – especially if they’d been granted the fell boons of Chaos. Yet Crombie put them to ground so fiercely that even Saltzpyre took pause. There was dedication, and then there was the merciless glove and steel-toed sole of a truly iron-willed witch hunter – and Crombie’s mettle was iron-forged indeed. And yet Saltzpyre frowned at the man all the same, opting not to dismount his own gelding and touch shoes to soil next to him. He watched the lamplit windows of the out-of-the-way tavern with a wary eye as he spoke.

     “It puts a foul taste upon my tongue to assist in such a task as this, Crombie.” he said. He felt a coldness in the glower of the other man’s own single eye, but he chose to not to acknowledge it. “I’m aware our fellow Templars oft leave room in their schedules to whet certain appetites. At least once a fortnight, if not more. But for you, of all men, to do the same…I confess it disappoints me.”

     Crombie’s expression remained stoic. Try as he might, Saltzpyre could not quite read it. “Over the years I’ve learned to tolerate the dissent of other men, Saltzpyre. You are not the first, nor will you be the last.” He took off his watchtower hat, fingering the brim as he stared at the tavern door. Ashes-to-Ashes quietly picked at the grass beside him.

     From within, both men could hear the playing of a fiddler, and the raucous laughter of numerous drunks.

     Saltzpyre lowered the brim of his own hat, turning his gaze away in distaste. “At least you are a sober man. That, I can find no fault with.”

     “As are you…though I’ve heard tell that that hasn’t always been the case.”

      Saltzpyre flinched at the smirk he heard in Crombie’s voice. In the next second, he whipped his half-blind focus back to the ample-bodied hunter. “I’ve precious little use for the bottle, Crombie, unless milk or water cannot be served wherever I lodge.”

     “Ah. Then explain to me why you do not abstain from it completely. Better yet, tell me why you insist upon partaking of that foul tobacco?” Though Crombie’s visage remained even and unmoved, for a trace of a second Saltzpyre perceived a sneer lifting the corner of his mouth. Only for a moment, however. “The scent of it unsettles me; I find it no better than the powdered mushrooms the berserkers of our Order are so fond of.”

      “Tobacco settles the nerves, Crombie. By contrast, death angel snuff coaxes the mind into a frenzy. That is the key difference.” Saltzpyre replied.

      “But alas, smoking doesn’t lend you the same mirth as strong drink, does it?” Crombie asked. “’Tis not the sort of thing to induce a lapse of memory, either, nor to make a man happy as a child…with about as much sense as a youngling, too.”

     That was more than enough. Hands tightening on the reins of his horse, Saltzpyre halted Crombie’s tongue with an abrupt question. “How did you find out about this?”

     “I’ve my ways and my reasons.” Crombie replied, a smile crossing his face at last. He stroked the side of his steed, standing with all the cool confidence of a man who’d just made the decisive move in a game of chess. “You’ve enjoyed an indiscretion before, for all you wish to deny it. Perhaps only for a single night, yet once was enough to satisfy your need. Save your judgment for the witches, Brother Saltzpyre, and let me enjoy my own.”

    Saltzpyre held his tongue, though he was sore tempted to tell Crombie precisely what he thought of being commanded so. But Sigmar saw fit that the tension be broken by another.

     Warm light caught the two hunters in its flood for the twinkling of an eye, as a young man dressed in modest attire stepped out of the tavern. Lesser light poured over the surroundings even as the newcomer shut the creaking oaken door behind him, blazing forth from the flickering lantern in his grasp. Cropped blonde locks bouncing as he greeted Crombie with a bow of his head, the undersized fellow spoke up with a voice more befitting of a woman. “…’Eve and well-met, good sir Crombie. Thou’rt early.”

     “So I am, Scabious. Though it matters little on a night like this.” Crombie replied, thrusting forth a satchel filled with coin to the young man, who accepted it readily. “There. Now, what use is waiting any longer? Get into the saddle; we’ve no time to tarry here.”

    Scabious nodded, though he cast a sidelong look at Saltzpyre. Beneath the shrewdness in those deceptively doll-like, effeminate eyes, the dour hunter sensed a lurking fear. “What of him then, sir? Am I to-“

     “No.” Crombie answered. “He is merely here to accompany us on our way, and to see that none of your kindred feel the need to interfere with our arrangement again.”

    “…I beg thee, forgive my brother Amos.” Scabious replied, with a nervous sort of smile. “He…understandeth nothing of how thou hast helped the farm.”

    “Out of the goodness of my heart.” said Crombie.

    “Yes, sir. Great is thy generosity indeed.”

    Though he sensed more than a little sarcasm in the words, Saltzpyre refrained from remarking upon it. Doubtless Crombie was smart enough to catch it, too. But if he did, he also chose to say nothing. He merely watched as Scabious fastened the lantern to the pillion saddle and clambered onto the great gelding’s back. Crombie mounted the steed in turn, settling in the front and taking up the reins once more. With the lightest tap of the leather, Ashes-to-Ashes was off again at a steady speed.

    Saltzpyre touched his spurs to the sides of his own horse, and soon was keeping good time behind his comrade’s steed. He knew not what he would do when Brother Crombie and his strange companion went off to occupy themselves when they arrived at whatever destination lay ahead, and his heart rested heavy in his breast. He gazed out at the bobbing light in the darkness before him with a sinking feeling.

    All carnality was sinful, whether it be with man or woman. He was wed to his station as a Templar, and he loathed the sexual weakness which so poisoned other mortals. But deep within, the mark of impurity had stained him from a young age. Involuntary as it may have been, it was still his sin to bear. Carrying it had led his pious mind to submit to blessed forgetfulness, once. That spiked drink at Festag had seemed a blessing at the time, leading to childish glee and a peace he couldn’t recall having since…but in hindsight he knew it all to be a cruel trick.

     The hunters who had forced the beverage upon him on that wicked night were by now long dead, fallen in service of the Church and buried in village graveyards leagues apart. But somehow, Crombie had found out about his eve of weakness. The weight of that thought was like a chain about Saltzpyre’s neck, heavy and insistent.

     As he traveled onward into the night, he felt as though he were being dragged behind a jailor’s caravan. The hymns might speak of freedom, but this Saltzpyre knew in his heart: that Sigmar's sweetest bliss was reserved for the ranks of the dead.

[rensouli]

Crossovers in the conventional sense are not usually my thing. Even if two fictional settings mesh well, I often have to do some contextual acrobatics in my creative headspace to feel "proper" when pursuing a mash-up concept. It's just the way my brain works, I suppose.

But as of late, I've had the strange urge to combine two character fixations of mine, if only for a pseudo-historical oneshot (of a decidedly angsty, NSFW nature). I've no idea whether I will actually have the time or energy to pursue this story concept to my liking, but the germ of an idea is there, should I choose to poke at it further.

Take this an invitation to discuss this with me in replies, should you feel so led.